


Wounds

by GillianInOz



Series: An Honourable Endeavour [2]
Category: Endeavour
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-29
Updated: 2018-09-29
Packaged: 2019-07-20 10:35:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16135472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GillianInOz/pseuds/GillianInOz
Summary: Set after episode S2:3 Sway





	Wounds

“Died of wounds, that’s what they used to call it”. 

 

“Come on,” Morse said, taking him by the arm and tugging. “I’ll drive.”

Thursday let himself be led, Morse even seeing him into his seat and slamming the door closed behind him. Thursday stared blankly out the window as they moved through the city traffic, not noticing or caring the direction they took.  
He was at Morse’s door, the younger man’s hand wrapped again around his elbow before he started paying attention to his surroundings.

“Why’d you bring me here?” he said roughly. “I need to get home.”

“In a minute,” Morse said, unlocking his door.

“If you’re in the mood for a fuck I can’t help you,” Thursday snarled.

“I know,” Morse said calmly, pulling Thursday in and locking the door behind him. “You can’t fuck me through my clothes. I remember.”

Thursday snarled an exasperated breath and swung for the door, in a second Morse was turning him and pushing back into the room.

“You wanna go a round with me, little boy?” Thursday growled, grabbing Morse’s lapels and dragging him to his toes. “You wanna see how far you can push me?”

“Actually I wanted a cup of tea,” Morse managed, and took advantage of Thursday’s start of surprise to pull away and stroke his hands over his crumpled jacket. His shaking hands, Fred noted.

“Aw, Christ,” he said, pulling off his hat and throwing it at a chair. “You shouldn’t have brought me here. I’m in no fit mood for human company tonight.”

“So you were going home?” Morse said politely, picking up his kettle and filling it at the chipped sink.

“Nearest pub, more like,” Thursday gritted out, then sank back on the side of the bed, pressing his hands to his burning eyes. “Thought I’d crawl into a bottle and not crawl out until the sun comes up.”

“We can still do that,” Morse said evenly, putting the kettle on the hob and flicking on the gas. “I just fancied a cup of tea first.”

He laid out two cups and doctored them with sugar, while Thursday sat on the side of the bed, hands in his lap, shoulders slumped. Like a puppet with its strings cut. No strength to lift a hand, no strength to move. 

“I’m so tired,” Fred said. 

“You’re grieving,” Morse said. The kettle began its low whistle, but he just flicked off the gas and moved it to another hob. He crossed the room and stood in front of his governor, lifting his hands and laying them on broad shoulders. How many times had those lean hands gripped his shoulders, Thursday thought. While he kissed that wide, clever mouth. Or suckled those pretty pink nipples. Or nursed on Morse’s sweet, trembling cock.

There was nothing remotely sexual in this touch now though, just a slight pressure, the warmth of human contact, Morse’s scent rising from his skin.   
Thursday’s hands had strength in them again, he lifted them, cupping lean hips, then sliding around Morse’s back as his lad drew him in, drew him closer, pressed his governor’s head against his flat belly.

“You’re all right, sir,” Morse murmured, and the dam broke for Fred. The tears he’d been suppressing for days, weeks, the years since watching ruthless murderers butcher a town full of civilians to avenge themselves on the partisans in their midst. The day he’d seen her fall, his friends holding him back, dragging him away, muffling his screams.

As he muffled his grief now against Morse’s belly, the gasping breaths turning to heaving sobs, the sobs turning to cries of rage that echoed against Morse’s rib cage, Morse’s hands holding him impossibly tight, his lean arms wrapped around his head, cradling him, rocking him, anchoring him to the world as he drowned in his grief.

 

Endless time passed, the shadows in the room grew long, the street lamps above the front windows went on, lighting up the featureless brick wall that made up Morse’s view. 

Fred’s grip loosened and his hands fell away, and Morse took a step back and pulled a hanky from his back pocket.

“I’ll make tea, shall I?” 

He made the tea and they sat in the darkening room, sipping the over sweetened brew. Thursday felt the life creeping back into his limbs, his heart, his soul. Still heavy with grief, but an old grief now, back where it belonged, in the heart and soul of that young man on the ridge, in that never forgotten summer.

“I’ll drive you home,” Morse said, taking the cup and replacing it in Fred’s hands with his hat.

Thursday stood on shaky legs, putting the hat back on, adjusting it with ease of practise.

“Thanks,” he said. “Thanks for the tea.”

Morse nodded.


End file.
